


Sherlock and John in the Kitchen

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attempts to teach Sherlock how to bake a cake for Anderson's birthday. Silliness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock and John in the Kitchen

John Watson carried the flour up the stairs and into his flat, his arms holding the sack comfortingly, images of a baby, just that size, fitting snugly in the crook of his arm. 

He chuckled his thought away as he continued up the stairs and into the living room, where his best friend and flatmate was sitting placidly in his chair, his silk pajamas loosely melting off his pale, chiseled skin.

"You’re not seriously going to wear those, are you?" John questioned as he laid the flour and sugar on the kitchen table, which was now clear of the Chemistry set that permanently rested there. He nodded at the table, thinking to himself where Mrs. Hudson must’ve put the set, since she was most likely the one to clean it.

"What’s wrong with them?" Sherlock answered, raising his tall figure up from the chair and moseying into the kitchen, where he caught John’s twitchy eyes soaking up his form. He didn’t say anything, although he deduced that John had also become aware of his wandering eyes.

"You can’t wear silk pajamas to bake."

"Why not?" Sherlock’s voice was grumbling and low, that of a tiger’s, and although it frightened most people way with its intensity, John wasn’t most people, and he sassed Sherlock with the end of the wooden mixing spoon he had picked up.

"Because you’ll get them dirty," he swallowed hard at the thought of Sherlock covered in cake batter.

"I’m a perfectionist, no I won’t."

"But you’ve never baked, and as your friend I say you will."

Sherlock was still getting used to having John call himself his friend, although he had referenced him as such on multiple occasions, including his introduction to his detective friend, George.

Or was it Gavin?

John continued to merrily bustle around the kitchen, eyes filled to the brim with wonder at the sight of the clean countertops and and food-stocked fridge, rather than the specimens Sherlock usually kept there. 

It’d been nearly two years since they first met, and Sherlock was still surprising John with detached fingers in the icebox.

Sherlock Holmes, who was adamant against changing, leaned against the entry way to the kitchen, apartment 221B in view behind him, including the large window and Sherlock’s favorite chair.

His curled hair was messy and unkempt, for it was only eleven in the morning, and Sherlock had stayed up the night before on a case.

However, he did change his clothes into pajamas in order to trick John into thinking he’d gotten some rest.

That man worried about him so much.

"I said change," John said, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. 

A tight smile tugged at the corner’s of Sherlock’s heart shaped lips, and he responded justly with a flirtatious, “Into what?”

John pulled out a bowl from below the sink, which Mrs. Hudson had also leant them. 

He reached for the folded note from their landlandy as he said, “Something old, something you wouldn’t mind seeing get messy.” 

_Hope you boys have fun! Clean up your mess and keep an eye on Sherlock with the eggs._   
_P.S. use the batter for baking a cake FIRST…_

  
"First…?" John was puzzled, but the sound of Sherlock stomping away and into his room brought him back to reality: Mrs. Hudson thought they were gay and that they were going to use the -

John quickly distracted his mind from the thought by searching for the rest of the baking utensils while Sherlock changed. He found the whisk in the next drawer; the milk, vanilla, and eggs in the fridge; the oil, sugar and baking powder the cupboard; and the strawberries and pre-made frosting on the counter.

When Sherlock came back into the room, he was wearing the only thing he could find that wasn’t classy and pristine - one of John’s shirts.

John balked at the sight of his tall friend in his old maroon shirt, the clearly too small hem raising above his hipbones as he stretched and ruffled his hair, which to John’s dismay, caused his ears, nose and cheeks to heat.

He turned his back towards Sherlock and directed him that he would’ve given him an apron if he had one, but he didn’t, so they’d both just have to be careful.

John rambled on about making a mess with the ingredients, the different layers they’d need, and the freshness of the strawberries to keep his mind off of Sherlock’s jutting hipbones. 

He was unsuccessful in his attempt, but he kept talking anyway as he searched frantically for the measuring cups.

"Where’re-" 

A small, high tone came through the flat and into the kitchen, and Mrs. Hudson appeared with an apron in one hand and the measuring cups in the other.

"Oh, good, you haven’t started. Look, here’s an apron, Sherlock’s probably going to spill, oh, don’t look at me with that face. John, here’s the measuring cups. Did you get my note?" The older woman smiled brightly and looked between the two men, one of whom was pink and jittery, the other who seemed completely out of place without his regal outfit.

"Eheheh," the woman giggled, "Seems as though you’ve forgotten to change out of your sleepwear, Sherlock. Well, it seems you should get started now, it’s nearly noon and the party is at one-thirty, so…" Her voice trailed behind her like a breeze as she flitted out of the room as quickly as she’d come in.

Sherlock disregarded her comment, partially because of John’s reaction, partially because he didn’t fully understand it.

"So I’ve changed, are we starting?"

"That’s my shirt."

"I know."

"My shirt."

"It was the only thing I could find that was casual and ugly."

John rolled his eyes, Sherlock’s criticisms piling up in his head like falling stones. 

"Just put on the apron to be safe, and don’t go in my room."

"I wasn’t in your room."

John waved the ideas that came cascading into his mind away as he handed the apron to Sherlock, who fumbled for a while before giving John a helpless lamb look from beneath his brow. Having John slip it over his head and tie it behind his back for him was slightly comforting, and Sherlock was pleased that Gerard had told him and John that it was their turn to bake a cake for a birthday in the workplace.

"Why did Gerard assume you knew how to bake instead of me?" Sherlock mumbled as John came around from behind him, the apron now tied loosely over John’s old shirt.

"You’re inhuman and spend your nights decoding books… whereas for me, I’ve actually lived."

Sherlock snorted at the remark, but was eager to learn something new in order to please John and spend more time with him. John was his only friend, besides…

"And his name is Greg."

The consulting detective made his way through the small kitchen, which was now smaller due to the men’s close proximity, and told John that he was ready.

John went through the motions of baking slowly, telling him how to mix the wet and dry ingredients, how vanilla doesn’t taste as good as it smells, and why they’d put strawberries on it even though cake technically isn’t a fruit.

John liked having Sherlock next to him in the kitchen, and, through stealing short glances at Sherlock’s puzzled countenance, he deduced that Sherlock was trying to learn as best he could, despite all his questions.

Sherlock was now trying to crack an egg, but the shells kept falling into the bowl. Without losing his temper, which John promised to never do to Sherlock unless it was absolutely necessary (John was especially careful at this time, now that Sherlock had taken it upon himself to learn something new and admit that he didn’t know everything), John told Sherlock to use a knife to lightly make an even crack in the egg, which allowed for easier breakage.

Sherlock was either tapping too light on the egg’s shell, or completely busting the egg to bits with too much force. After glancing at the time, John decided to move the process along himself.

He stood behind Sherlock and brought each of his arms around Sherlock’s sides. Looking carefully from behind Sherlock’s left shoulder, John took Sherlock’s hands in his and guided them smoothly down to the edge of the bowl, the knife route at a loss. With one swift motion, the egg cracked softly at contact and the perfect yolk and white poured into the bowl without any trace of shells.

John had forgotten that his hands were on top of Sherlock’s, the detective’s pale knuckles gently pressing into the soft skin of John’s palm.

Watson released his hands quickly, cleared his throat nervously, and stepped back, his voice creaking back into professionalism.

"I can do the next one, you start the oven."

Sherlock regained himself, for it seemed he had been lost in the feel of John behind him, his breath on his shoulder due to their height difference. 

Sherlock had never really been taken control of before, since nobody dared to deal with him. The fact that John calmly took his hand and guided him to the answer, unafraid of getting too personal caught Sherlock by surprise and his stomach did a tiny flip as he stepped back as well and walked to the oven.

He knew how to work the oven, it was the first thing Mrs. Hudson showed him when he moved in. He’d been taught by those who loved him what to do in the situations that daily life called for, whereas he taught John and Mrs. Hudson how to spot criminals and scamming carpenters.

He clicked the oven on, preheating it to the correct temperature.

"Now you mix it until all the lumps are out." John composed himself and looked up when Sherlock didn’t respond. 

The oven was Sherlockless, and he searched the kitchen for his friend, the idea of Sherlock giving up on him and being offended of his teaching methods causing him to worry.

John always worried.

"Sh-" he turned around and was met with Sherlock’s face blowing flour out of the palm of his hand, into John’s hair.

Sherlock laughed, the only laugh that really ever only came out around John. It was comforting yet odd to hear, although John had the pleasure of getting used to it.   
That, and Sherlock’s practical jokes.

John dusted the flour out of his hair with a smile, his heart calming at the slender man’s tight smile and small chuckle.

John acted aloof, “Alright, very funny. Now we have to do this.”

Sherlock’s mechanical brain ticked into disappointment as he watched John turn back to mixing, ignoring his obvious attempt of starting a game.

John mixed for a few seconds before he dipped his finger into a glob of batter on the side of the bowl and plopped it onto Sherlock’s nose, which was still and prominently jutting out of Sherlock’s bony, handsome face.

Sherlock didn’t wipe it off as he grabbed the dishtowel that sat in a wrinkled pile beside him on the counter, which he was leaning on, and elongated it into a short rope.

He playfully smacked John with it, careful not to hurt him. He could never hurt John.

John, in turn, between short breaths and laughter, tried to tell Sherlock to stop, Anderson needed his birthday cake, but all that came out was “Hey!” and “Oh, you want to do this now?!”

John escaped the dishtowel and rushed to the sink, where he filled his cupped hands with water. 

He turned the sink off with his elbow and happily teased Sherlock with a splash, the detective’s bangs and eyebrows getting wet from John’s choice of weapon.

Sherlock wiped his eyes with the dishtowel and laughed as he continued to playfully smack John. He then dipped his hand into the flour once more and threw it at John, a puff of white dousing him in powder.

The men fought and teased and waged war in the middle of the kitchen, John’s round face curling into his wrinkles with each large smile, Sherlock’s blank canvas face getting a dash of color with the newness of prolonged laughter. Flour and water had been used as weapons, and by the end of it, both of them were dusty and wet and dripping with batter.

Eventually, John got Sherlock to leave him alone, a time period that was just long enough to mix the cake, pour it into the pans, and set it in the beeping oven. "Now we wait. After that, we let it cool for twenty minutes or so.. and frost and decorate it."

John glanced at the clock as he spoke. The party would start in fifteen minutes, and the cake would be cooled and frosted in a little over forty.

"We have some time," Sherlock deduced as he followed John’s eyes up at the clock.

John begged himself not to think of anything sexual, but he broke his own promise, and let the images and sounds of everything that had built up in his mind come crashing through the barrier as he spoke, “How was that? Did you learn how to make food for yourself, rather than order out Chinese?”

"I don’t think cake counts as food," Sherlock said as he pulled the apron off, which was covered in a matte of flour, water, egg and oil.

After his slender hands reached around the back to untie the apron, Sherlock raised it over his head, which caused John’s short shirt to expose his tailbone.  
John swallowed hard, his own shirt caked in ingredients.

At least he had one clean one to wear for the week, even if it did smell like detective.

Not that that was a bad thing.

 


End file.
